


Texting the Dead

by orphan_account



Series: It's Still a Bromance if Watson's a Woman [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canonical Character Death, Fem!John - Freeform, Femlock, Gen, Genderswap, Molly's the one who gave Watson Gladstone, Temporary Character Death, Watson mocks Lestrade for crying during Doctor Who, a lot of texts are sent to a dead man, beekeeping cause it's canonical and amusing, girl!Watson, girl!john, the skull may or may not be renamed Yoric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the silence Jo thinks she hears one quivering note from a familiar violin.  She spends an hour smashing ceramic mugs in the kitchen and then sweeping them up.  She is careful to get every last shard in the bin.</i>
</p><p>Joanna Watson has her own ways of grieving.  She spends an inordinate amount of time texting her dead best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Texting the Dead

_Stop meddling.  Stop telling Ella to call me.  I’m not going to therapy, you nosy bugger.  If you want to spy on me use the CCTV not unsuspecting shrinks._ -JW

Jo Watson doesn’t answer the repeated calls.  She texts Mycroft, because she knows how much he hates it.  She signs all her texts, even though the only person who ever cared doesn’t reply.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

 _Mycroft being an arse.  We’re out of milk.  There aren’t any body parts in the fridge.  I miss you.-_ JW

Greg and Mycroft come to the Baker Street flat at least twice a week.  Usually they visit separately, but a few times they’ve arrived together.  That will never stop being weird. But they seem sort of happy, so she feels bad mocking them.  Well, a little bad.  Probably not as much as she should.  They're apparently following guidelines from some sort of brochure or textbook on managing grief.  They want to help, they want her to talk, they want her to go out and meet new people.

Jo doesn’t want to meet new people.  She wants her person back.  But Joanna Watson is nothing if not practical.  She knows how this works.

 _Left you flowers today.  I have no idea if you like flowers, maybe I should’ve left you mold cultures.  Anyway, I left you my favorites.  Daisies.  You probably think that’s cheap or something.  I always thought they were the friendliest flowers.  I miss you._ -JW

At least she stopped sleeping at the cemetery.  That was wreaking havoc on her shoulder.

“He wouldn’t want to see you like this.” Greg’s eyes are very brown and very sad.

“Well bully for him.  You seem to be forgetting one very important fact.  He’s dead.” Jo continues her staring contest with the skull on the mantle.  She’s thinking of calling it Yoric.  Sherlock would hate that.  It almost makes her smile thinking about it.

She wasn’t always like this.  In Afghanistan Jo lost brothers in arms with enough constancy to render it almost normal.  Not quite, but almost.  You pack them up in a box and send them home.  You continue doing your duty because that’s what soldiers do.  But this was different.  This was Sherlock, and despite his love of Battlefield London, Sherlock Holmes was definitely not a soldier. 

She wants to scream.  She wants to rip out her hair.  She wants to hit him.  She wants him to come back.  She wants to stop having dreams where he’s still alive.  She wants to not wake up in a cold sweat with her heart racing.  She wants to not see his bloody hair matted against the pavement every time she closes her eyes.  Everything is unbearable.

 _Saw Molly today.  She wouldn’t look me in the eye.  Maybe she couldn’t, I don’t know.  Think she bought a new cat; there were dark hairs on her sweater.  Toby’s sort of orange, so they weren’t his.  Maybe she has a new boyfriend.  It’s probably a cat.  I miss you._ -JW

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but his will was very clear.” Today is Mycroft’s turn to make sure she hasn’t eaten her gun.

She would rather watch ‘The Only Way is Essex’ than admit it, but Jo has a soft spot for Mycroft Holmes.  The man is like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.  Plus she’s always been a sucker for a good suit.  And no matter what Sherlock said it was always clear that Mycroft really did worry about him constantly.  Jo is sure he blames himself for Sherlock’s death.  She’d like to agree, but she knows it wasn’t his fault.  At least not wholly his fault.  Moriarty was resourceful; he could get his information anywhere.  Creepy little bastard.  She wonders what they did with his body.  She hopes it’s in pieces somewhere.  Really tiny possibly-burnt pieces.

“I don’t care.  I don’t want anything.  Bury it.  Burn it.  That’s what they do to bodies.  That's what you do with the dead, right? That’s what you can do to anything he left me.”

Jo wonders what it would feel like to torch the flat.  She could just burn what’s left of their life together.  Would that make the dull throbbing in her chest fade?  Probably not.  Everywhere and everything and everyone in London reminds her of him.  If he ever loved anything it was the city. After the war he and London brought her back to life. And anyway, burning down 221 Baker Street would be dreadfully inconvenient for Mrs. Hudson, whose hip has been acting up thanks to the damp weather.  Jo’s shoulder has been aching too, but she welcomes the pain.  At least she feels something.

 _Did you ever think about setting things on fire just to watch them burn?  To watch the ash settle and know it’s all just gone?  Maybe I have latent pyromaniac tendencies.  Maybe you knew that.  I miss you._ -JW

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, he was very insistent upon your receiving this particular gift.”  Mycroft pushes a glossy picture across the coffee table and Jo automatically picks it up.

It’s a house.  It’s a gorgeous house in the country somewhere, all brick and ivy and dappled sunlight.  How grotesquely pleasant.

“What is this?”

“It’s a house.”  Thank you for the brilliant insight, Mr. Holmes.  “Sherlock’s house in Sussex.  He planned to retire there.”

“Retire?”

“Yes.”

“He’d rather die on the job than leave London.”

“He planned to raise bees in his old age.”

“Bullshit." Mycroft raised one ginger brow. It's his version of tolerating her outbursts. She wonders what would happen if she ever hit him. Probably wouldn't get there. There's no doubt snipers or a squad of heavily armed men waiting to storm the apartment when he visits. Maybe.  "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Be that as it may, apiology was the plan.  He left you the house.”

“But I don’t want it.”

“Doesn’t matter.  All expenses and future taxes on the estate are covered.  If you’d like to see it, I can have a car here in minutes with the keys.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Have a pleasant afternoon, Doctor Watson.”

 _You left me a house. Why the hell did you leave me a house?  What am I supposed to do with it?  I didn’t know you owned a house.  You owned a house and you needed me to split rent for our crummy little flat?  You're completely mad. Probably why we got on so well. I miss you.-_ JW

When Greg visits he brings beer and Doctor Who DVDs.

“You are my favorite living person,” Jo informs him.

This seems to make him sad, but he nods and passes her a London Pride anyway.

“Start with Tennant?”

“You know me so well, Detective Inspector.”

She mocks him mercilessly when he starts sniffling at the end of ‘Doomsday.’

“Domesticity has turned you soft, Lestrade.”

“If the separation of Rose and Ten doesn’t make you cry you clearly have no soul.”

“I don’t cry,” Jo shrugged, starting in on her third beer of the afternoon. At least she's not drinking alone, even if she is day drinking. She determinedly ignores the mental image of Harry sobbing in the hospital when Jo was wounded, drunk out of her mind at eleven in the morning.

“What’s the deal with that anyway?”

“The crying?" Greg nods. "Never saw it help anything.”

“Sometimes it makes you feel better.”

“Bollocks.  Put in Series 4.”

 _Everyone keeps treating me like your grieving widow.  They’re all idiots.  But you already know that.  I may be the biggest idiot.  I sort of feel like your grieving widow.  I wish I had a TARDIS and could go back and kill Moriarty myself.  You hate Doctor Who.  You probably don’t know what a TARDIS is, but that’s okay.  I miss you._ -JW

Greg doesn’t say anything when she skips ahead to ‘The Silence in the Library.’  He cries during the next episode when River Song dies, even though River sort of doesn’t die and people get killed on this show all the time and come back.

“I will kick you out if you don’t stop weeping like a little girl.”

“Shut up, Joanna.”

She does.  They skip to ‘Turn Left’ because it’s sad and they like Catherine Tate. Plus they both have a thing for Billie Piper.  Greg’s phone starts buzzing halfway through the series finale.

“Go on, your boyfriend’s waiting.”

“I can stay.”

“You’re just going to get all whimpery when we watch the Christmas special and there's a regeneration.  It’s very humany-wumany of you.  Say hi to Mycroft and get out of my flat.”

He leaves the DVDs on the table and kisses her cheek before leaving.

 _Greg is dating your brother.  They visit with gross regularity.  Did you leave them directions to check up on me?  I think they think I’m depressed.  Is this your way of being my nanny from beyond the grave?  That’s kind of hilarious.  I feel weird spending the money you left me.  If I’d known you were so rich I would’ve made you pitch in for groceries more often.  I miss you.-_ JW

Jo wonders why he left everything to her.  She’s unsurprised that someone his age had a will.  You don’t live like Sherlock Holmes without thinking you may die an early, unnatural death.  Sometimes she forgets he’s sort of like a soldier. Sometimes.

In June she texts the number of Mycroft’s nameless assistants.  She hasn’t been to Sussex since she was a kid.  Maybe it will be less horrible than wandering around London.  The whole city is a graveyard.

The house is beautiful and old and painstakingly remodeled for modern convenience.  Jo can’t quite imagine Sherlock living here, but then her mind ages him thirty years.  His curls are graying at the temples, there are added lines around his mouth and his crow’s feet have grown more pronounced.  She pictures him in a beekeeper’s hat and veil in the fields behind the house.  He’s nattering on about harvesting techniques and has several recent stings on his arthritic, but still beautiful, hands.

Jo has tea and biscuits for dinner and sleeps on a hammock strung between two elm trees.  It’s too quiet and there are so many stars it almost burns.  She spends three days in the Sussex house, cleaning it from top to bottom.  It’s almost cathartic if she doesn’t think about it too much, just loses herself in the rhythm of scrubbing and dusting.  The thick layer of grime is gone and she properly tarps the furniture.  There’s a beautiful and recently tuned grand piano in the library.  Jo is as passable on the piano as she is on the clarinet. She finds an entire section of science fiction and fantasy novels, well-worn and carefully arranged by author and series. Sherlock knows they're her favorite.

In the silence Jo thinks she hears one quivering note from a familiar violin.  She spends an hour smashing ceramic mugs in the kitchen and then sweeping them up.  She is careful to get every last shard in the bin.

 _This house is beautiful.  Why didn’t we ever come here?  Did you know I can play the piano?  My fingers were always a bit too short to be very good.  I bet you learned, too, before you learned to play violin.  I miss you._ -JW

Jo has never been so happy to breathe the dirty London air.

In July Jo realizes she’s almost thirty-five.  Her birthday’s on the fourth.  In Afghanistan everyone thought that was hilarious.  They called her their ‘all-American girl.’

The day before her birthday two tickets to the symphony arrive by post.  For a moment she thinks they're for Sherlock, but then she realizes it's a concert of film scores.  They're a present for her.  She has a brief fantasy about burning them, but eventually tucks them into the top drawer of his nightstand.  It's where she stashed a few newspaper clippings with pictures of both of them, as well as his favorite blue scarf.  The drawer is full of the things she wants to destroy, but can't stand to live without.  The drawer is the only thing in the room she changes.  Everything else is exactly as he left it.

 _Sometimes I sit in your room.  Just sit there.  It still smells like you.  Did you know you have a smell?  I never really thought about it before, but it’s true.  Thank you for the tickets.  It’s unfair that you’re never going to get old.  I feel old already.  I hate my birthday.  I’m not going to the concert without you.  I miss you._ -JW

On her birthday Jo spends a few minutes too long methodically cleaning her gun.  She has lunch with Mike who is still sweet and chubby and tries very hard to make her smile.  They talk about the good old days and she fantasizes about what her life would’ve been like if she’d never gone to Afghanistan.  In the afternoon she finds three new greys while curling her hair.  The sandy brown strands fall nearly to her bra strap in the back, and she doesn’t remember it ever being this long.  Maybe Sherlock would like it.  Mrs. Hudson bakes a red velvet cake with homemade vanilla frosting.  Mycroft and Greg come by with a bottle of champagne and a box of monstrously expensive chocolate.  They all get a little tipsy and Jo feels like kicking something when she sees Mycroft and Greg sneaking a quick kiss in the kitchen.

The next day Molly comes by with her present.  It’s an English bulldog puppy.  Molly rambles about how pets are great for people who live alone and Jo wonders if she has an entire flat full of cats yet.  Jo decides not to kill Molly Hooper and thanks her before kicking her out.  She studies the dog for a few minutes.  The dog studies her back.

“You should probably have a name.  Any preference?”

 _Molly gave me a puppy.  Do you like dogs?  I’m thinking of giving him some kind of historical name.  You’d probably like that.  You’d probably name him after a scientist or something.  Maybe I’ll name him after a politician.  You’d probably hate that.  I miss you._ -JW

Jo names the puppy Gladstone.  It’s more because he’s decided sleeping in her bag is cozy, but it has the added benefit of being the name of a politician.  She finds herself oddly attached to his squishy little face.

She’s standing on Clarence Bridge.  Jo likes to take Gladstone and his chubby legs on meandering walks through the park.  Today they are watching the herons fly over the boating pond with a grace that makes her heart twinge.

“Gladstone, I presume.”  The familiar baritone to her left sounds slightly pained.

Jo looks over to see Sherlock’s familiar face.  He’s scowling sort of half-heartedly at her puppy.  She nods and turns back to the pond.  “You’ve been getting my texts, then.  How’s the other side treating you, Holmes?”

“Joanna…”

“Oh, I know, I’m not supposed to indulge my subconscious in flights of fancy.  Incredibly unhealthy.” She looks back at him, studies his face.  “You never look this worried in my dreams.  My psyche must be getting fragile and concerned for my well-being.”

Sherlock stands up straighter with a sigh.  “I’m not dead.  I’m your idiot flatmate and I’m very much alive.”

“Oh.”  Looking closer his hair is too short and too gingery.  There’s a new scar across his left cheek.  He is entirely too thin.  She shifts Gladstone’s leash from her left hand to her right.

Jo lands a solid left hook on his chin and she will relish the astonished expression on his face until the end of time.  “You feel real enough.”  Gladstone barks merrily as Jo helps Sherlock off the ground.  “Mycroft forwarded my texts, then?”  He nods, one hand rubbing his jaw.  “And I assume you finished dismantling Moriarty’s empire?”  Sherlock nods again. “Good.  That’s…that’s good.” 

They eye each other warily for a minute.  There will be more conversations.  She will eventually get the answers she needs.  But for now, this…this is okay.  He’s alive.  It’s okay. 

She starts walking, but doesn’t hear the familiar footfalls following.  “Come along then.  Do I have to sic the puppy on you?” Jo frowns, looking back over her shoulder.

It’s the work of a moment for him to catch up and they fall into an easy rhythm walking up Baker Street.

“You only get to do that once, Sherlock.  If you lie to me again I’ll kill you.”

“Of course, Joanna.”

“You may choose between strangulation, sabers, or Gladstone.”

“Obviously.”

“Mrs. Hudson is going to weep all over you, and you’re not allowed to protest.”

“Duly noted.”

“Are you really going to study beekeeping when you retire?”

**Author's Note:**

> This was very nearly titled 'One Woman to Mourn Him' after a quote from The Hound of the Baskervilles: " _Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him._ " But my darling beta Cressida gave me the idea for this story by her gift of a title, so Texting the Dead it is.


End file.
